


Runs in the Family

by Corker



Series: Broken Dolls [1]
Category: Dragon Age
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-03-10
Updated: 2013-03-10
Packaged: 2017-12-04 22:17:13
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 431
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/715712
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Corker/pseuds/Corker
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In 9:4 Dragon or so, after a failed attempt to break apart Leandra Amell and Malcolm Hawke, Gamlen and Bran drown their disappointment at the Hanged Man.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Runs in the Family

They were, theoretically, far too upper crust to be seen in a dive like the Hanged Man. But there were damned-all places in Hightown to go and drink without someone reporting the scene back to their fathers.

Gamlen dropped his empty mug on the table and shook his head in disbelief. “I can’t believe it. It didn’t work.”

Bran knocked back another shot of a thoroughly vile brandy and grimaced in reply.

“An apostate! I thought she’d go running for the hills at the news! Hey,” Gamlen raised his voice sharply at a passing woman with a handful of tankards. “I’m dry over here!”

“Sure, sure,” the woman waved him off. 

He lurched angrily to his feet. “I want another beer and I want it - !” He broke off when Bran gripped his forearm, hard.

“Sit. Down.” The seneschal’s son’s pronunciation got clearer and more careful the deeper into his cups he got, until words began to stand alone as sentences. “You’re making. An ass. Of yourself.”

Gamlen shook him off irritably, but sat to wait for his beer. “An apostate!” he repeated. “ _How_ can she... I just don’t...”

“Yes. You do,” Bran said, holding up his own small cup to signal a refill.

Gamlen got very still. “What.”

“You _do_ ,” Bran insisted, swaying just slightly in his seat, a very small and rather cold smile playing at the edges of his lips. “Understand. How she can.” He waved vaguely with his free hand. “Want him.”

Gamlen leaned far forward over the table, right into Bran’s smirking face. “Shut up, you drunken sot.”

“Is there such a thing. As a sober sot?” Bran wondered, not giving an inch. 

“I was helping _you_. No need to insult _me_ because your stupid plan didn’t work,” Gamlen spat.

One ginger eyebrow rose archly. “Insult?” Gamlen felt ice prickle down his spine as the temperature seemed to drop in the room. His confederate, he remembered too late, had broad-ranging taste in lovers. “Well.” Bran pushed his bench back and rose, dropping coins on the table.

Gamlen sputtered. “Ass!” was all he managed at Bran’s retreating back. He didn’t _want_ to drink alone, but his battered pride couldn’t manage an apology. Not tonight.

He snarled at the girl when she finally brought him his refill, and drank half of it off in a go. In any other circumstance, he might have seen a bright spot - if Leandra ran off, breaking her engagement, forfeiting her title... why, the estate would fall to him, wouldn’t it? Wouldn’t that be grand?

Except, like his sister, he’d rather have Malcolm Hawke.


End file.
